


like wildflowers

by A_Confused_Kitten



Series: soul flowers [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Athos | Comte de la Fère Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e01 Friends and Enemies, Episode: s01e02 Sleight of Hand, Episode: s01e03 Commodities, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Language of Flowers, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, POV Athos | Comte de la Fère, Platonic Soulmates, Pre-Canon, Romantic Soulmates, Savoy, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, ish, until its not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29373549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten
Summary: In Athos’ opinion, the stories are nothing more than that. Stories for children and stories for the dreamers, for the people who haven’t seen the flowers decorating their skin, who haven’t been faced with the bold colors of a scar.If the ring around his neck, haunting blue petals, has taught Athos anything, it’s that soulmates don’t bring happiness. All soulmarks mean is that a person has some kind of hold on you, whether it’s on your heart or on your mind.Still, some part of him, the part that died with Thomas, whispers, the other could be different. The other one might feel right.~~In which, flowers represent your soulmate, and Athos doesn't know what to think about the red lilies blooming on his skin.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, Aramis | René d'Herblay/Porthos du Vallon, Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon, d'Artagnan/Athos | Comte de la Fère
Series: soul flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163846
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	like wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a quick explanation of how soulmates work in this fic. You can work it out pretty easily just from reading it, but this is it written out more straightforward, rather than the characters mentioning various aspects of it.
> 
> When a person is injured, their soulmate gains flowers wherever the injury is, almost like drawings. As the injuries heal, the flowers fade, until it looks like they were never there at all. However, if the injury leaves a scar, then the flowers are permanent. The colors become brighter and bolder, almost like a tattoo. The flowers are supposed to represent your soulmate in some way, such as their personality or the relationship you have with them. No matter how many soulmates a person has, the flower remains the same.

Soulmarks, Athos finds, are nothing more than a mere curiosity; something to be taken into consideration, but never to be relied upon.

No one knows how the marks came abouts, nor where they came from, but the stories? The world has plenty of those.

To some, the marks were a symbol of completion, because if you haven't found the people your soul calls to, then what was the point? Without them, you live half a life, an imperfect one, because part of your very soul is missing.

To others, they were nothing more than a guideline. _Yes,_ there are people that you're meant to meet, and yes, there are people who fit around your edges like puzzle pieces. But if you’re meant to meet them, why go out of your way to find them?

In Athos’ opinion, the stories are nothing more than that. Stories for children and stories for the dreamers, for the people who haven’t seen the flowers decorating their skin, who haven’t been faced with the bold colors of a scar.

If the ring around his neck, haunting blue petals, has taught Athos anything, it’s that soulmates don’t bring happiness. All soulmarks mean is that a person has some kind of hold on you, whether it’s on your heart or on your mind.

 _Still,_ some part of him, the part that died with Thomas, whispers, _the other could be different. The other one might feel_ right. 

Some part of him still hopes for something better, for what he thought he had with Anne. Because Athos has always wanted that warmth, wanted to find the one who's scars were painted on his skin like blossoms, who's injuries covered in him calla lilies, red and bright and beautiful.

Athos wants to understand the stories, to understand that desperate _need_ to find that person. 

But there's a scarf wrapped around his neck, hiding that string of flowers, and Athos knows he's not made for happy endings.

Because he's never loved anyone the way he loves- the way he _loved_ Anne. There's never been anyone else to make his heart sing, never known anyone so beautiful, so sweet. No one else has ever fit so perfectly in his arms, or matched him word for word.

She bore his gladiolus and he bore her forget-me-nots, and they should have been perfect. Proof that soulmarks _meant_ something in a world so cold.

They should have been perfect.

They should have been _perfect_ and then Anne left him shattered, ruined beyond repair.

After that, the stories bleed from him like petals falling from a rose. 

Buying his home in Paris is one of the best decisions Athos has made. 

It’s small and crowded and there’s hardly enough room for him to warm up in the mornings, and it’s certainly nothing like the estate, but Athos doesn’t care about that. The air is fresh and the view is fine, and the sounds of Paris are a comforting barrier between him and his thoughts.

Sometimes he wakes up to flowers blooming on his wrists, on his fingers, on his hands. He'll watch them curl upon his shoulders, grow along his spine, dance across his knuckles, but Athos isn't worried. 

He learned to fight, once, what feels like years ago. Athos remembers how it starts, becoming a swordsmen. It’s falling over and over again, until you learn to get back on your feet, no matter what happens. It’s knowing how to respect your blade, so it doesn’t nip at your fingers, so the weight of it doesn’t feel wrong in your hand.

Because despite it all, Athos _cares_ for this person. After everything, he cares for this stranger, and he’ll be damned if he’s the one to hurt them, because he can’t face that, not again. He cares for them, and one day, he hopes he’ll hold them close, hopes he never fails to keep them safe.

And something inside him whispers. Mocks him for holding on to that thin string of hope, because if he already burned one person given to him by fate, what’s saying he couldn’t ruin the other? 

It’s a downward spiral, like diving into the deep end of a lake, but Athos finds ways of silencing it.

He throws himself headfirst into the bottle, and this time, that numbness is by choice, rather than forced upon him. Athos hates the taste, he always had, and it’s bitter and sweet and slowly, he gets used to it. He doesn’t like it, not by any means, but it quiets his thoughts and somehow, the bitterness on his tongue outweighs the darkness on his mind.

He throws himself into fights, though, he usually rarely tries to start them. He has a habit of trying to separate them, though, and people, tend not to like that, so Athos finds himself with blood on his knuckles and bruises on his face. He doesn’t start the fights, but it’s dishonorable to lose on purpose, so Athos fights with everything he’s got.

It’s on one of these nights he meets Porthos.

He’s watching the flowers blossom over his skin, watching the red petals dance as the vines twist around his forearm, when the man sits next to him. 

“You seem popular ‘round ‘ere.” He says, glancing around. And he’s not wrong, if you’re looking at things from a certain way, because Athos has more than a few glares pointed in his direction. “It makes a man wonder if you’re interestin’ conversation.”

“Stop a few fights, throw a few punches, and suddenly the world wants a piece of you.” Athos says, sipping his wine and paying no attention to the crowd.

The stranger laughs, loud and warm, showing off the faded marigolds on his cheek. “Now, that’ll do it,” he says, raising his glass as he grins, almost like he’s saluting him. “You see, the people ‘ere are always itchin’ for a fight.”

Athos gives him a look, somewhere between bored and intrigued. “And you? You don’t seem particularly interested in a fight.”

The man shrugs, though, his grin doesn’t fade in the slightest. “Me? I’m just lookin’ for a nice little chat. You up for it?”

And Athos pauses, thinking about it for a moment. And _really,_ what harm could it do? Athos may not be a particularly social person, but this stranger intrigued him, and he never had been the best at tampering his curiosity. 

So he grins, and knocks back the rest of his drink with ease. “Of course, my friend. Now, where shall we start?”

“Call me Porthos, for starters,” the stranger, Porthos says, and his grin turns sharp. 

Athos raises his empty glass. “Athos.”

And he doesn’t know how long he spends there, sitting at a table in a cramped bar where everyone knows and hates him, talking to a man he’s only just met. _But_ he does know this.

It may be the first of such nights, but it’s far from the last.

“What are you plannin' on doin'?” Porthos asks him, on one of their more quiet nights.

They're not at a tavern, or even at an inn of any sort. That's far too loud, far too crowded for a night like this, when wounds fester right below the surface. Instead, they're on a rooftop, one Porthos had scaled with ease, and Athos had climbed with significantly… _less_ grace.

They have a drink, a bottle of wine to share between them, because there's nothing quite like a drink among good company. And if Athos has discovered one thing since he came to Paris, it's that Porthos is good company.

So they drink and they laugh and they seek each other’s company, whether it’s for a friend in the daylight or a confident after night has fallen, and Athos wonders how he’s gone so long without having company like this.

“There’s gotta be a life outside drinkin’ and fightin’,” Porthos continues, not waiting for an answer. Maybe he’s not looking for one, or maybe he’s known Athos long enough to know he doesn’t have one.

“If there’s a place we’re meant to be,” Athos says, taking a drink, “then I hope we’re lucky enough to find it.”

Porthos grins, though, just barely. It’s a small, quirk of his lips, and Athos wonders what he’s thinking about. “Meant to be, ay?” He says. “Never took you to be the kind of person who caters fate. Destiny, _soulmates,_ and all that.”

Athos takes another drink, and takes a long, slow breath. “I’m not,” he says after a moment. “Fate is something for children’s stories, and well, soulmarks aren’t promises of good things, but somehow, we still care for them. Still wonder about these people we’ve never met, and make up all kinds of stories about who they must be.”

Porthos gestures for the bottle, and Athos gives it to him. “I grew up in the Court,” he says, and Athos goes silent. History is one line they haven’t crossed yet, and it feels as if one wrong word will have Porthos turning back. “In there, people would always talk about findin’ their other half ‘n’ makin’ it out. I always thought it was rubbish. There aren’t many things worse than that, usin’ your marked as nothin’ more than a status boost.”

“I think,” Athos says, “you may be right.”

Athos has always wondered what it felt like for others who had found their soulmate. Was there the same, lightning fast connection he had with Anne? Or was it slower, like watching the flowers spread across their hearts? 

He knows there isn’t a right or wrong answer, just as there isn’t a right or wrong way to love someone. Regardless, he’s always been curious. Though, he’s long since accepted that it’s not his place to ask. 

But now, surrounded by snow and surrounded by carnage, Athos regrets ever wondering. 

Because after what seemed like hours of searching, of calling _“Is anybody out here?”_ they’d found someone limp in the snow. And they were cold and frozen and bleeding, but their heart still beat, and that’s all that matters.

One eye, almost split in half by the sunflower on the man’s face. A sunflower that, Athos notices, matches up perfectly with the scar on his friend’s face.

Judging the expression on Porthos face, shattered and guarded and hopeful, all at once, he’s seen it, too. 

“Athos,” he says, voice breaking. His friend immediately falls to the ground, running his hands over too pale skin, fingers lingering over the soulmark. When he turns to face him, there are marigolds growing on his temple, orange and yellow against his dark skin.

“Come on, now,” Porthos says, and he sounds desperate, more desperate than Athos has ever heard him. “Open your eyes for me.” And when dark eyes blink open, unfocused as they dart between them, Porthos’ smiles, somehow, sad and relieved at once.

Something aches deep inside Athos chest, and he’s not willing to put that feeling into words. He knows what it is, knows it every time he sees the lilies on his skin, but now isn’t the time for his history to have his mind.

Now, his friend needs him, and nothing else could be more important than that.

“There you go,” Porthos says, softly, “can you tell me who you are?”

“Aramis.”

And as much as Athos wants to leave them to their meeting in peace, there’s no time for soft words and careful smiles, no time to take things slow. “We don’t have time for this, Porthos. Hand him here.”

Porthos nods. “I’m goin’ to move you now, alright? Do you got any injuries that I need to be aware of?”

“Legs. Shot in the left, broke m’ other ankle.” Aramis says, and Athos bites back a swear. He might not know the other man, but he is Porthos’, and somehow, that means Athos cares for him. 

And he has never considered himself soft, but between Porthos’ sad smile and Aramis’ broken eyes, Athos thinks some part of him is crumbling down.

“This is goin’ to hurt, my friend, but we need to warm you up and check your injuries, before we can move you out of ‘ere and into a safer place.”

For both of their sakes, Athos prays it is that simple. 

But the moment he pulls Aramis against him, the moment he pulls him into his arms, Aramis cries out, half-choked words escaping his lips, soft enough that Athos has to strain to hear them, and when he does, he thinks he’s going to be sick. 

“We can’t leave them, we _can’t leave them, Marsac,_ you’re hurting me, stop, please stop, don’t go, Marsac, don’t _go,”_ Aramis pleads, and somehow, that’s not the worst of it. _“Don’t leave me alone with these flowers, don’t leave me here to die with them-”_

And that’s all Athos can take before he’s tugging Aramis to his chest and holding him tight. “No one is going anywhere, Aramis,” he says, forcing his voice to be even. Because his soulmate may have ruined him, but he left on his own accord. Aramis doesn’t seem to have gotten that choice. “You have my word.”

He looks up and finds murder in Porthos' gaze, kind eyes turned hard and cold. And Athos thinks about the lilies under his sleeves and the forget-me-nots around his neck, and he thinks he understands. 

The first few days, Aramis is a ghost. 

He's quiet and his words are few and when he speaks, his voice still trembles from the cold. His eyes are dark, lingering on the scar on Porthos face, hesitant and hopeful all at once. 

"You're my marked, aren't you?" He says, the words are barely audible.

There's silence, and then, "I am." Porthos says, just as softly.

And Athos feels like he should leave. This isn't a moment meant for his eyes, and these aren't words meant for him to hear. But the look in their eyes is vulnerable, like they may shatter if even one thing goes wrong, and Athos doesn't dare step away.

"I can't trust you on that alone," Aramis says, and there's a question in those words, though Athos can't identify it. "Not after…"

Porthos nods. "And I wouldn' expect you to. It'd be unfair to ask that of you, 'n' I'd like to consider myself an honest man."

And Athos can't force himself to stay any longer than that. He lingers, close enough that he could hear their shouts, but far enough that their soft words are nothing but whispers among the breeze. Because this, more than anything, is not meant for him, and while he knows he's welcome here, some moments are not made for company.

And he may not hear those words that follow, but that doesn't mean he doesn't notice their effect.

Slowly, Aramis becomes softer, less jagged edges and more a smooth blade, just as the anger fades from Porthos' eyes. It's still there, of course, and Athos doubts it will ever leave.

Because he remembers what it feels like, remembers the fierce protectiveness when your soulmate is hurt and there's nothing you can do to fix it. When there's nothing you can do to ease the pain. 

Watching them, all broken smiles and gentle touches, Athos wonders if he'll ever feel that way again.

But after that first time Aramis smiles, and Athos sees the look on Porthos’ face, he doesn’t think he needs to. 

He’s already got a friend in Porthos, a brother, even, and he knows Aramis won’t be far behind. Because he likes the quiet man, and while they didn’t connect as quickly as him and Porthos did, that hardly makes a difference. 

It takes them three days to arrive back at the musketeer garrison, and by the time they arrive, the marigolds on Porthos’ temple have brightened, the colors gone bold, and they all know that it’s the sign of a scar. 

“Ya see,” he says, grinning, “it means we’re matchin’.” 

Aramis smiles at that. And it’s still small and delicate, but it’s something. 

Regardless, they arrive back at the garrison. Or rather, _Aramis_ arrives back at the garrison, given that neither Athos nor Porthos have been there prior.

They’re greeted by clashing swords and men rushing about, and while Aramis’ flinch is subtle, it certainly doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by Athos, and certainly not by Porthos, who pulls him close to his side. 

_There’s an organized sort of chaos here,_ Athos thinks, because that is the only way he can describe this. There’s people racing this way and that one, some carrying their swords on display while others leave them in their scabbards, and Athos glances more than a few people carrying pistols. 

“Do you know these people?” Athos asks, watching Aramis’ expression.

He shakes his head. “Somewhat.” And Aramis is glancing around, just as Athos had been, as though he’s searching, looking for something he doesn’t see. “I know their names and I know their skills, but do I know them as individuals? No, I’m afraid not.”

And there’s something tragic about that, something Athos feels all too well. It’s the same way he felt after losing Thomas, before he came to Paris. Because every person, man or woman, has that one person they can’t live without.

The only difference is that for Athos, that person was killed by his soulmate, and for Aramis, his soulmate is the one who’s missing, the one who chose to leave rather than forced to.

“Aramis?” A voice calls, older and tired, and when Athos turns to face it, a man is walking towards them.

The man is tall and graceful, and there’s an air of strength around him that Athos notices in an instant. His sword is tucked away, hidden by the blue cape draped around his shoulders, but there’s no doubt that the man is skilled with it.

“Thank God,” he says, the moment he lays eyes on Aramis’ face. “At least one of you survived. When we got word of what happened, I had hoped…” He trails off, eyes distant, and then his attention is on Porthos. “And I see you’ve found someone important.”

“The name’s Porthos,” he says, nodding his head. “And my friend, Athos.”

And Athos nods, as well, because he may have left the noble life, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t remember how to be polite. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, _monsieur.”_

“Treville, Captain of the King’s Musketeers.” The man says, and Athos commits that to memory. Thinks, _this is the man leading the most famous swordsmen in France,_ and remembers a conversation on a rooftop.

Athos sends Porthos a look, hoping he remembers the conversation just as well as he does. Because soulmates are tricky things, and while Athos may not have the same faith in them as he once did, he knows Porthos and Aramis won’t leave each other behind.

 _The pair of them,_ he muses, _are what all of the stories are supposed to be._

And he isn’t tied to them. There’s no reason why he should stay here, just to be here in their company. They don’t share marks, they have no common history, other than drunken talks and midnight memories and yet. 

Athos finds himself wanting to stay anyways.

Treville must see something in the three of them, because he sighs, rubs his temples, and the look he gives them is utterly exasperated. “I was hoping for two of my musketeers to return,” he says, slowly. “Instead, I have one, and the two men that managed to charm him. Come along, then.”

And then Treville is walking away, not glancing back for even a moment.

The three of them exchange glances, all unsure, all determined. 

Aramis shrugs, and trails after the captain, waving for them to follow. “Don’t be daft, now, my friends! Hurry up!”

“Should we?” Porthos says, staring after them.

Athos pauses, because _should they?_ He thinks of his soulmate, of the lilies on his knuckles and the scars on his body, ones he _knows_ are from swords, and thinks that maybe, a group of swordsmen wouldn't be half-bad company to keep. And that maybe, his soulmate will show up here, wanting a cause to fight for, because Athos can't imagine his soulmate as being anything but driven.

“Might as well. Like a good friend once told me, there’s got to be a life outside of drinking and fighting, and maybe this is it.”

And then they’re rushing after their third, Porthos grinning all the while.

Their first mission together as musketeers, as one can expect, is fairly simple. They’re delivering a letter to a nobleman a few days' travel from Paris, and the letter is relatively important. Information for the nobleman, and the nobleman _alone,_ if Treville’s intel is to be believed. 

Athos finds it incredibly boring, and far more draining than it should be, but not every mission is _supposed_ to end with sword fights and glory, and he doesn’t mind the change of pace.

Because _Aramis,_ to no one’s surprise, has a tendency of making things more dramatic than they need to be. 

Porthos loves it, but he loves everything about Aramis, no matter how small it may be. Porthos loves him for his smile and he loves him for his dedication, and he loves him for his theatrical tendencies, so Athos is left to be the one grudgingly fond of it.

Not that he’ll say any of that out loud, of course. 

“Someone’s lost in thought,” Aramis says, a knowing glint in his eye.

"I wonder, should I be worried?" Porthos chuckles.

Athos only rolls his eyes. He's spent far too much time with them to be surprised by their banter, and on a peaceful day like this, somehow, it feels right. "I'm merely wondering how I managed to end up with two idiots as brothers." He says, and the words mean more than he can possibly tell them. 

How could he?

How could tell them that he hasn’t had a friendship like theirs since Thomas? That he hasn’t _trusted_ someone like this, hasn’t _needed_ someone like this since he lost his brother. Because they aren’t his soulmates, just like his brother hadn’t been, but that hardly seems to matter.

His soulmark had torn him apart, because as much as he loved Anne, she had wrapped thorns around his heart, and almost a year later, he’s still trying to stop the bleeding. 

But soulmarks _are_ important, he knows this, because how else do you explain his trust in Anne? Or the way Porthos and Aramis are drawn to each other, like sunflowers turning to the sun?

 _Important_ doesn’t mean _everything,_ though, and Athos knows this now. He thinks about his brothers, and truly, he loves them.

Still, he smiles when he sees lilies blossom on his skin, brilliant and scarlet, and the smile feels like a secret.

After four five years of being a musketeer, Athos would like to say he can tell when a day is going to start off terribly. 

Today, however, has been a day like any other. Waking up hungover isn’t uncommon, and neither is finding Porthos causing trouble in a tavern, though Athos wishes he had more sense than to pick fights with the Red Guard. 

And well, as for Aramis. The man has a way of making himself friends in unwanted places, and spending the nights talking and laughing, only to make a _daring escape_ in the morning. 

Regardless of that, there’s nothing special about the day. There were things to worry about, of course, Athos isn’t stupid enough to ignore that. Cornet and his men are missing, along with the letters they were meant to be delivering, and God, there’s no way for that to mean anything good.

But the day itself is a normal one, and the only thing on Athos’ mind as he awaits their orders is the lilies spread across his body. 

Lilies in the pattern of injuries, lilies in the familiar patterns of a fight. Not a duel, for a duel doesn’t leave flowers blooming across your back and your shoulders and your ribs, and for the first time, Athos fears for his soulmate.

His marked has fought before, Athos knows that for certain, and he has the flowers to show that; the thin line across his hip and crisscross scars against his forearm. But Athos has never woken to find his skin painted red, stained crimson like blood, and it’s all he can do not to search them out. 

Because you don’t find your soulmate on an adventure, not like the stories say. You find them dancing in a ballroom, flowers in their hair that match the pale ones under your shirt. You find them lying in the snow, cold and pale, and watch as love grows from there. 

Athos should have learned by now that soulmates aren’t for everyone, that he should stop caring for the scarlet soul blooming on his skin, but he’s never been good at doing what he should.

“I’m looking for Athos!” Someone calls from the entrance, and Athos glances up, boredly.

Because really, the one morning neither of his brothers have gotten themselves into trouble, trouble comes marching after him. Athos isn’t even surprised, if he’s being honest. The three of them aren’t known for being friendly, they’re known for getting things done, and sometimes, that happens to mean making a few enemies. 

So he straightens up, and fixes the stranger with a look he hopes is deterring. “You’ve found him.”

“My name is d’Artagnan, of Lupiac in Gascony,” the stranger says, and something about the name rings familiar. “Prepare to fight, one of us dies here.”

Or maybe the name means nothing to him, because Athos remembers the people who want to kill him. Not all of them, of course, because there are far too many people in line to kill a musketeer like him, but he remembers the ones honorable enough to challenge him, and d’Artagnan’s words are nothing less than a challenge. 

“Now, _that,”_ Aramis says, rather unhelpfully, “is the way to make an entrance.” And of course. Of course his friend immediately latches on to d’Artagnan’s theatrics. Because what else would Aramis do, react reasonably?

Still, a challenge is a challenge, and well, while Athos isn’t going to turn away from it, he _would_ like to know precisely _why_ he’s being challenged at all. “Can I ask why?”

And d'Artagnan's gaze darkens. “You murdered my father.”

“You’re mistaken,” Athos says, because he knows that is true. “I am not the man you’re looking for.” 

“Do you deny you shot Alexandre d’Artagnan two days ago in cold blood?”

And Athos nods, never letting his eyes off d’Artagnan. He knows the look in those dark eyes, knows the anger burning inside them, because he’s felt it before. He felt it after Thomas, and feels it in his darkest nights, when not even the bitter taste of wine is enough to clear his mind. 

“I usually remember the men I kill,” Athos says, slowly. “That name means nothing to me.”

d’Artagnan draws his sword, and the look he wears is murderous. “So you’re a liar as well!” He shouts, and then they’re fighting. 

They’re fighting and there’s nothing like the thrill of it. Athos has fought before, he’s made a life out of it, but this is different. The clashing blades ring in his ears, the motions as easy as breathing, and the only thing setting it apart is the glow of d’Artagnan’s eyes. 

There’s something familiar about the man, as though Athos should _know_ him, but he’s nothing more than a stranger. Nothing more than the man who challenged him to a duel, and yet somehow, Athos doesn’t fight to kill. 

So he slashes and parries, dodges and strikes, until d’Artagnan is pinned. “That’s enough!” He shouts, letting his blade fall. “That could have been your throat. Don’t make you kill me over a mistake. I didn’t kill your father, and I don’t want to kill you.”

And he turns away, because that should be it. The man had come here for a duel, and a duel he had gotten, and that _should_ be the end of it all.

Or, Athos _thinks_ that should be it. 

Until his brothers are shouting his name, and there’s a blade sticking out of the post behind him. He turns, adjusting his grip on his sword, because maybe there’s more to this d’Artagnan than he thought there was. Because there are not many men who can stand up to him in a fight, let alone keep trying at it. 

But the guard sweep in, their faces blank, and Treville says they’ve come for him. 

Highway robbery and murder, or so someone’s claimed, and while Athos knows that neither is true, he doesn’t make any attempt to argue. 

What he _does_ say, however, are parting words to the man who challenged him, to the man who came here to kill him. “I am not the man you’re looking for,” he says. 

d’Artagnan tilts his head, his brow furrowed, and Athos finds that look far too charming. “Then why did my father name you before he died?”

“I don’t know.”

And Athos wishes he did. It feels like there’s a story here, more that he wants- no, more that he _needs_ to know, but there’s not enough time for that now. There’s not enough time at all. 

There’s time to think, after the trial. 

They’ve decided him to be guilty, and there’s nothing he can do about it. After all, all of the evidence points to him, so how can he argue? His word means nothing here, and maybe, his name would have meant something, but that was long ago.

The only thing left to do is think, and well, there’s plenty for Athos to think about. 

He could think about Porthos and Aramis, his brothers in all but blood, and how he knows they’re fighting for him, or about Treville, and the sad, sad look on his face as the guard marched him away. 

He could think about Thomas, or he could think about Anne, because no matter how hard he tries to separate them, they’re tied together. Not by the flowers, never by the flowers, but because Thomas meant home and Anne meant the loss of it. 

Or maybe, he could think about _them._ Think about the person made to change his life, made to be a part of him, because isn’t that what soulmates are meant to be? Everything that you could ever want in a person, someone who thrived without you, but felt complete with you, just like you did with them?

 _It’s ironic,_ he thinks, that secret smile on his face, _a man who can’t believe in soulmates wishing to have met this in his last hours._

But he can’t stop himself from thinking about the flowers blooming on his skin, about how delicate the red petals look under candlelight, about how his soulmate might look when they smile. 

Because despite everything, despite all the wrongs he’s done in his life, Athos wants to meet them. After all the mistakes he’s made, he still wants to hold them close, still wants to run his fingers over their flowers, wants to say sorry for all the scars he’s left on them.

And when the priest kneels in front of his cell, says "Confess your sins, and you shall be forgiven," Athos speaks. 

"There was a woman," he says quietly, and he's not confessing to the priest in front of him. No, he's bearing his soul to the person he's yet to meet, the one he never will. "I loved her. I _loved_ her, and I killed her." 

The man nods, a silent _go on._ But Athos can't, or maybe, he won't. This is his cross to bare, and it’s not something that can be forgiven. If he dies tomorrow, then he dies with her thorns wrapped around his mind, and lilies embracing his beating heart.

“Find someone who deserves the forgiveness you’re giving,” Athos says, his voice barely even a whisper, and then the priest is gone. Off to find another lost soul to pray for, or whatever it is he does.

Athos has faith in his brothers, even if he can’t let himself believe in anything else, and if there is anyone who could prove him innocent, it’s them.

Still, if Athos is to die tomorrow, he only hopes his soulmate doesn't hate him for it.

But he doesn’t die. 

Instead, Porthos and Aramis come rushing in, the moment the firing squad readies their guns, and to Athos’ surprise, d’Artagnan is trailing behind them, waiting on the steps. 

If the other's notice his surprise, none of them mention it.

At the steps, Athos stops, and takes a look at the man who had come here to kill him, and yet, hand wound up saving his life. He looks for a reason and looks for a question, looks for what made d'Artagnan think he was worth it.

But the only thing he finds in those dark eyes is fire, warm and roaring and bright. Athos doesn't want to look away for even a moment, suddenly content to watch the flickering flames, but he forces himself to nod, and take the next step.

 _Thank you,_ Athos doesn't say, because somehow, he thinks d'Artagnan already knows.

Because he doesn't know what d'Artagnan found in him that was worth saving; he still hardly understands why his brothers claimed him as their own. And he's only known d'Artagnan for a matter of hours, and talked to him for no more than ten minutes, but there's something intriguing about him.

Something that has Athos wanting to know _more,_ when usually, he doesn't bother to know a stranger.

And d'Artagnan _is_ a stranger, albeit an odd one, because what man goes out of his way to save someone he doesn't know? 

“I owe you an apology,” d’Artagnan says, once Porthos and Aramis are a decent bit ahead of them.

Athos glances at him, keeping his surprise in check. “What for?”

d’Artagnan laughs, tired and bitter. “For simply accusing you of murder, of course, instead of stopping to think. You seem like a good man, an honorable one, or at least Porthos and Aramis seem to think so.”

He doesn't comment on any of that, doesn't know how to. “You are far from the first to fight me, though, you are the first to have helped me after doing so.”

The other ducks his head, falling silent. “It only seemed fair. I came here to kill you for a crime that you didn't commit, and given the offer to find my father's killer? It just seemed like the right type of thing to do.”

Athos shrugs, nodding. “And what now? You came here to achieve a goal, and you have done precisely that.”

Now it's d'Artagnan's turn to shrug, though, there's a soft smile on his face. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Madame Bonacieux has offered me lodgings, once she discovered she shared my flowers." Before Athos can even begin to comment, d'Artagnan continues, as though he's expecting to be spoken over. "And she's a married woman, mind you, so stop those comments before you even start with them."

Athos raises a brow, amusement clear across his face. “I never thought of suggesting otherwise,” he says, and he means it. “The madame is a kind woman, but not every flower blooms for romance. If you say she is your marked, I will not ask any further.”

Their words turn silent after that, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet, and Athos is left to wonder. Because d'Artagnan is truly something else, and if he stays around much longer, Athos fears he'll fall for him.

“Thank you,” d'Artagnan says, quieter than Athos has ever heard him. “In Gascony, people always know your soulmates, and if they don't, they never stop asking. It's refreshing to meet someone who acts differently.”

And Athos doesn't know why, but he wants d'Artagnan to stay. Whether that's with the musketeers, or simply in Paris, he doesn't know, nor does he care, but despite having only known d’Artagnan for a handful of minutes, Athos doesn’t want to give up his company. 

But he can’t ask him to stay. Not when his eyes are that bright and his smile that warm, and Athos has a touch like poison. Not when Athos ruins the people who decorate him with flowers, and d’Artagnan is so loyal to his blooms.

Athos asks him anyway.

It’s the only way.

That’s what everyone is saying, that _it’s the only way_ because the whole world knows that Athos would never leave Aramis or Porthos behind, nor would they leave him. It’s the only way because d’Artagnan is new, a stranger to Paris and a stranger to the world, and that made him the only one Vadim would believe.

 _It’s the only way,_ the world seems to scream.

 _We shouldn’t have sent him,_ Athos’ mind whispers.

Because no matter how brilliant d’Artagnan may be, he isn’t trained for this. He isn’t ready for spending days pretending to be something he isn’t, for countless hours under Vadim’s watchful eye. Because no matter how clever d’Artagnan may be, Vadim is looking for it. 

He’s looking for the slightest thing wrong, for even a moment of hesitation, because that’s how his kind of people work. They demand loyalty and they demand to be heard, and Athos prays that d’Artagnan doesn’t end up on the wrong end of that.

But they are musketeers, in spirit and in heart, and that rarely leads to things going right.

They’re too bold, too curious, too eager to help at a moment’s notice. And in this world they live in, that only brings them danger. Boldness leads to offense and curiosity leads to trouble, and being eager? Well, that rarely lasts for very long.

d’Artagnan is brilliant, Athos would be lying if he said otherwise.

It still feels like they’re sending a lamb into a den of wolves.

d’Artagnan comes back, of course, bringing information with him, and Athos wonders why he doubted him, until he sees the look in his eyes. It’s quiet and subtle, the exhaustion hiding there, and his words are tinged with an unspoken relief.

Every move d’Artagnan makes is nervous and careful, though, the man does his best to hide it, and all of Athos’ doubts resurface.

But they _need_ information, more than d’Artagnan’s already gotten them already. They know he’s got vendetta against the King and Queen, and that he’s planning an attempt on their life, but nothing more than that, and in order to prevent anything, you need to know the details of it.

“Send me back,” d’Artagnan says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

And it’s too much of a risk, too much of a danger, because there’s no way to know if Vadim is on to them, no way at all, and Athos won’t risk one of his people for something as insignificant as _information._ Because the information may be valuable, but d’Artagnan is a living, breathing person, and that matters more. There’s no telling what could happen if the mission goes wrong and Athos won’t let a friend get hurt because he sent them back into the fight. 

“It’s too much of a risk,” he says evenly, forcing his thoughts to remain silent. 

“We _need_ the information, and there’s no other way to get it.” d’Artagnan insists, and the worst part is this: Athos knows he’s right. He knows he’s right and he _hates_ it with every breath he takes, because d’Artagnan is a good man, and good men shouldn’t be used as spies. Shouldn’t be used carelessly, not like this. 

But d’Artagnan is _right,_ undeniably so, and there’s nothing Athos can do to change that.

So he sighs and he shakes his head, letting the fight fall away from him. “Be careful,” he says, because those are the only words that dare leave his lips.

d’Artagnan grins at him. “I’ll do my best.”

Vadim knows. 

Vadim _knows._

The room is empty and there’s blood on the floor, blood that could have come from one person and one person alone, and they never should have let d’Artagnan return here.

But there’s no time to think, no time to react, because Treville is already leading them away, leading them towards the fight. 

_He’s not dead,_ Athos thinks, and somehow, he knows it’s true. He doesn’t know _why,_ and he doesn’t know how, but he knows. 

But Vadim is on the loose, nowhere to be seen, and they can’t let him wander free. Not when he harbors ill intent against the royals and has the means to do serious damage.

Athos takes one second, and then another, hoping that for once in his life, he hasn’t lost something before it’s even had a chance to start.

It’s over. 

Vadim is cornered, and there’s nowhere else for him to go. The three of them are at his back, and walls surround him on all sides, and truly, Athos can’t think of any way for him to escape them. 

And there’s something missing here, something wrong. Athos doesn’t know what it is, but his heart is at his feet, his breath caught in his throat. Something is missing, a part of the puzzle Athos desperately needs to solve, but can’t. 

Someone else should be there, and Athos feels the absence the same way he feels the flowers on his skin, a quiet kind of ache. 

“It’s over, Vadim,” he says, forcing his voice to stay even.

Vadim doesn’t move. “Not quite.”

And those words send a chill down Athos’ spine, and he wonders if the cold he feels is from fear or the air. “Where is d’Artagnan?” He asks, and it feels like a demand. Because he needs the answer like the very air he’s breathing.

But Vadim doesn’t answer. He glances over his shoulder, a careless expression on his face and a dark look in his eyes. 

_They made a mistake in sending d’Artagnan here,_ Athos thinks, and guilt feels heavy on his shoulders. “Is he dead?” He asks, and he can barely keep his voice from trembling. 

Vadim smiles. Blocked in, trapped with nowhere to go, and Vadim _smiles._ But then he’s bringing his hands to his head, and whispering, and Athos has to strain to hear his words.

_“Bang.”_

And then the world around them is a storm of orange and red, of ashes and dust, and there’s no time to think as they’re slammed to the ground, head fuzzy and thoughts muddled.

There’s no time to think, never enough time to _think,_ not even for a moment, because this is the damn life they chose. As soon as they’ve recovered from the blast, they’re diving into the tunnels, into the dark because this is their duty, and this is their oath.

 _“Musketeers!”_ Someone shouts, and then they’re right back into the fight.

It’s almost too easy, fighting the rebels. They may be outnumbered, but they exceed in skill, and in a fight like this, that’s all that matters. Parry here, strike there, side step now, swing next.

It’s a pattern that Athos is familiar with, intimately so, and he could do this with ease, even if there was more to it. His body fights and his mind feels asleep, paused except for the singular thought repeating, a mantra against the clashing swords.

_Don’t let us be too late._

Maybe Athos should be concerned about how easy it is to fight their way through, or about how Vadim isn’t among them. Maybe, he just doesn’t have it in him to care.

d’Artagnan is alive. 

He’s covered in dust and ash and exhaustion seeps from his every move, weariness lingering on every action, and his smile is unsure, tired and nervous but _there,_ because he’s _alive._

 _For now,_ Athos thinks, _that’s enough._

And there’s so much he wants to say, because he can’t let another person die under his watch. Can’t let another person with eyes that warm, a smile that brilliant, die because of a choice he made. 

He doesn’t say any of it. 

“So you are alive,” Athos says, and thankfully, his voice doesn’t betray his thoughts. 

d’Artagnan shrugs, a small smile creeping across his face. “I think so.”

They’re all alive, all in one piece, and now that that’s been confirmed, they have a thief to catch.

Lilies. 

There are lilies on his wrists. Calla lilies, bright and warm and _brilliant,_ just like d’Artagnan is, and his mind goes blank.

 _Oh,_ Athos thinks, _oh._

He thinks of d’Artagnan, gingerly wrapping his wrists after Vadim had been captured, of d’Artagnan arriving in Paris the morning after murder, the same morning Athos’ had found himself covered in blooms. 

He thinks of d’Artagnan’s smile, of the _wrongness_ he felt after sending him back, and maybe, could that mean-

Athos stops himself before the thought can even begin. 

_There’s no use dreaming of the stories,_ he tells himself, but God, he wishes the world would let him have this hope, for just a moment because Athos is falling.

And it’s not like petals from a rose, or leaves from a stem, because nothing bad should come from this. He’s falling, like Icarus fell for the sun, and laughing all the way down. 

It’s no use trying to stop the fall, and Athos wonders if he’ll ever hit the ground. 

He wonders if this is what Porthos felt like, all those years ago in Savoy. If he felt this pull, this tug on his heart, or if the air felt clearer.

And some part of him wants to laugh, wants to _cry,_ because he doesn’t even know.

There’s no way to tell, other than the telltale sign of flowers, of gladiolus on d’Artagnan’s skin, and Athos doesn’t want to see him injured. Doesn’t want to see him hurt because Athos is falling for him, painfully slow and overwhelmingly fast, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

But flowers bloom in a matter of hours, and the world doesn’t give Athos even a week to wade through his thoughts. 

Athos’ mind is scattered, tearing itself apart after years of running, because everything has always led back to this place. Back to the tree surrounded by pale blue flowers, back to the house with its empty halls, back to the place where his life came crashing down around him. 

And what other choice does he have?

Porthos is injured, a nasty gash in his shoulder, because not even a simple mission could go right. 

Escort Bonnaire to Paris, where he’d meet with the King and the Cardinal, or whoever it was who had summoned him, and keep him safe from the Spaniards who were chasing after him. 

It was supposed to be simple. 

_It should have been simple._

But he remembers the house stained with his brother’s blood, and now Porthos is bleeding and wounded and Athos should have stopped it.

Because this isn’t an injury Porthos can just brush off. The gash is deep and ugly and his skin is painted crimson, and Athos knows that soon, more sunflowers will decorate Aramis’ body. 

This place messes with Athos’ mind, and he doesn’t know if he’s the ghost walking through these halls, or if his memories have turned haunting.

He can’t stay still, can’t linger in one place, because if he does, the ghosts will show their face. Athos isn’t ready for that, not when his brothers are still here. Not if d’Artagnan truly bears his scars.

If he does, then he doesn’t need the stories that are begging to fall from Athos’ lips. He doesn’t need the tragedy, doesn’t need to hear the story of what happened here, of the once beautiful garden and the woman who died there.

 _Beautiful and cruel,_ he thinks, _this place is beautiful and cruel._

d’Artagnan asks anyway. 

“What happens to this place?” He asks, and though his voice is full of wonder, it’s also somber. Quiet in a way that d’Artagnan rarely is. 

And there are so many ways he could answer that.

He could say that he doesn’t know, and it’d be true. Because he hasn’t stepped foot in this house in five years, five long years of avoiding the ghosts that follow him, and he doesn’t know how this place from beautiful to cold, from _home_ to nothing at all.

He could say that the house fell apart after he left, but that he remembers it before. Before it was old and abandoned and ruined, because for twenty years, it was his everything. It was his home and it was his status, and once, it would have been _theirs,_ but he ended that chance ages ago. 

There are so many things he could say, but the truth is like poison on his tongue, and the words will never be said.

“Bandits,” Athos says, and the worst part is, he doesn’t know if it’s the truth or a lie.

“Who’s that?” d’Artagnan asks, and as he gestures at the painting of Thomas, Athos feels his heart shatter.

But he’s never been able to say no to those eyes, just like he could never say no to her’s. So he takes a deep breath and he speaks, the words burning inside his throat. “My brother, Thomas.”

d’Artagnan doesn’t ask anything else, after that.

They leave, and Athos stays. 

Athos stays, and he doesn't know whether he hopes to walk away from this life, to leave behind the ruins and walk away with only the noose of petals around his neck, or if he merely wants to live among the pain of it all.

He has years of memories here, of childhood and adulthood and everything in between. He thought that this place, this _home_ would be his forever. That it would be the place for him and his marked, content even if he only had Anne by his side, because she made him feel complete in a way no one else could ever come close to.

Athos had never been more wrong.

He has years of memories here, and yet, the ending is all that matters. Nothing stands out more in his mind than those final hours, than that final night.

Anne, locked in her room, the windows barred, and him, crying and lost, because there was nothing left for him anymore. 

He had a brother and a soulmate, but one was dead by the other's hand, and Athos didn't know which one he was mourning more. His brother, his _Thomas,_ who'd been by his side for so many years, or the idea of soulmates, that the idea I'd one person being made to connect with you, made to fit perfectly with you, was a lie.

Somehow, a bottle ends up in his hands, and somehow, Athos isn't surprised.

He drinks it, and then drinks another, but the bitter taste does nothing to soothe the ache inside his heart, to calm the storm clouds brewing in his mind. 

All it does is make his head feel like cotton, make the world ring in his ears, but Athos doesn’t _care._

 _You never should have come here,_ his mind whispers, and the words are too loud, but so are his thoughts. _You never should have come back,_ and the words ring true?

Because this house is a prison, and Athos is the one with the lock and key, and yet, he can’t escape the memories flooding his head. Memories of warm days and cool nights, of his brother’s laughter and Anne’s brilliant eyes.

Eyes brilliant, just like d’Artagnan. 

And he doesn’t know why he’s thinking of the Gascon now, but once the thought enters his mind, it stays. Another memory lingering on the surface, another smile that finds a home amongst his thoughts. 

But then a figure enters his line of sight, beautiful and dark and _Anne._

“You’re dead,” Athos says, and his voice _shatters._ “I watched you hang.”

The ghost smiles at him, the look of a lover and of a stranger all at once. “But you didn’t watch, did you? You couldn’t stand to see your beloved wife, the soulmate that you _loved,_ choking on the end of a rope. But look,” she says, and that smile grows, “I still carry the token of your love.”

Burn scars and forget-me-nots.

Burn scars from the noose that was meant to kill her and forget-me-nots that were meant to love her.

The matching marks mean one thing, and that can’t be possible. Anne can’t be alive, she _can’t_ be. She couldn’t have survived, couldn’t have killed the one thing still connecting him to this godforsaken place, and yet. Here she is. 

Standing there with that cruel, cruel smile. 

“Why are you here?”

“To erase the past, to destroy it completely.” And for a moment, that look in her eyes seems to soften, just like how it looked _before._ Before everything fell apart. “I’m glad you came back,” she says, then, her eyes darken once again. “It’s only right that you should die with it.”

He doesn’t say that some part of him already died here. That some part of him died the night she murdered Thomas, the night she revealed herself as the woman she was, and not the woman she pretended to be. 

He doesn’t need to. 

Anne knows everything about him and nothing at all, and that is no secret to her. 

She moves lightning fast, bringing the end of her torch down upon his temple, and the world spins around him, unstable and unmoving. Athos feels blood on his temple, but he hardly notices because of the look in Anne’s eyes.

He wonders if that look is the last thing Thomas ever saw. 

“Perhaps it’s best it ends like this.” Anne says, a dagger falling into her hand, her face blank.

Athos doesn’t have the strength to fight anymore. “Do it,” he says, _“do it.”_

And maybe they’re soulmates, or maybe they’re the opposite. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Athos and Anne are the story of when soulmates go wrong, of trying and trying but still ending up in that same, desperate place. 

_Maybe,_ he thinks, _they’re the story of souls too broken to fit._

“Athos!” A voice shouts, and Anne goes still.

 _d’Artagnan,_ Athos realizes, _why is d’Artagnan here?_

And then Anne is rushing away, leaving him broken on the floor as his former life goes up in flames around him.

 _You need to move!_ His mind screams and shouts, but Athos is tired. 

Memories fill his mind, overflowing and overwhelming until they’re all he knows. 

The world is burning around him, but he remembers what it was like before all of this. He remembers meeting Anne at a dance, a flower held gently between her hands, and he remembers the gladioli on her wrists. He remembers thinking, _that’s where I have my injuries._

He remembers falling in love and falling out of it, remembers the mornings in their garden, and giving her flowers, because his Anne had always loved flowers. She loved the stories on his skin, loved the idea of carrying your soulmate with you. 

But Athos is drunk on stories of love gone wrong, and high off the idea that someday, someday it may be _right,_ and he wonders if she ever loved those stories in the first place. 

_“Athos!”_ d’Artagnan calls again, and this time it sounds closer, oh so closer, and then he’s there. 

He’s there in all his wonder, burning brighter than the fires around them, and the look in those dark eyes is one Athos will never forget. They’re soft and gentle and fierce and protective all at once, and when he comes closer, Athos thinks his eyes shine gold. 

“Athos,” he says, _“Athos.”_ And somehow, the words sound like a song. “It’s me, d’Artagnan.”

As though Athos could ever forget his face, his name, as though Athos could ever forget a damn thing about him. 

It’s then that he notices the flowers. 

Gladioli, soft looking and delicate, white and pale purple, against d’Artagnan’s temple. 

_My flowers,_ he thinks, mind caught in a daze, _they’re beautiful._

And they are, light colors against the dark of d’Artagnan’s hair, of his eyes, and they look _right._ Athos wonders why he ever doubted, but he already knows the answer.

Athos doesn’t know how they manage to leave the house.

d'Artagnan carefully pulls him aside, guides him with gentle hands around his wrists. There's a softness there that Athos doesn't understand, but he says nothing. He doesn't know how to.

“Athos?” d'Artagnan says, quietly. “Athos, are you alright?”

And no, no he isn't. Because Anne is alive and d'Artagnan is his soulmate and the very world around him is crumbling under his feet, and d'Artagnan is the only one to witness the fallout. 

But he can't say any of that, can't force the words from his lips no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much he _needs_ to. So Athos shakes his head, barely noticing the stinging bruise on his temple, too distracted by the flowers on d'Artagnan's face.

“Your flowers-” He starts to say, but the words fall short.

d'Artagnan looks down, avoiding Athos' gaze. “I always used to imagine what they’d be like, my soulmate. I hoped they were someone I could rely on, someone I could trust more than anything. My other half, yes, but also _more_ than that.” He laughs, the sound unsure. “Though, you may think that’s foolish.”

“It’s not foolish,” Athos says, because if anything, it’s the opposite. 

There’s something wonderfully kind about waiting for your soulmate, about holding them close to your heart, even when you have no idea as to who they are, or where they’re from.

Silence stretches over them, soft and comfortable. Athos wonders if there’s more he should say. He wonders if he should say that he once thought the same way, instead of mere curiosity about the scarlet flowers that dance across his skin. He wonders if he should have said something else entirely, if he should never have mentioned the flowers at all.

Then, d’Artagnan speaks, and the world stays still, as though it’s holding its breath. “I think they’re yours.”

And Athos doesn’t know what to say.

Because _God,_ he hopes they are. And it’s been years since he dared to hope, since he dared to pray for the stranger who bares his flowers, but d’Artagnan changed that the day he arrived in Paris. He’s changed everything and nothing, changed Athos in ways he doesn’t even know how to describe.

He feels lighter, somehow, as though the weight of the world isn’t pressing down on his shoulders. Like he’s finally, _finally_ found that person who might be able to soothe his jagged edges, because as much as he loves Porthos and Aramis, Athos’ heart has never sung quite like this.

Athos takes a breath, long and slow, and lets it out. “I think you may be right.”

d’Artagnan smiles, and the look on his face is brighter than the sun. 

And Athos has seen things that are beautiful before. He’s seen the stars shining above Paris, and lakes at dawn, at the moment the sun starts to rise. He’s seen fields of flowers bigger than the garrison, each petal a different color.

d’Artagnan’s smile puts all of those to shame. 

Athos doesn’t know who moves first, but they end up in each other’s arms, d’Artagnan’s arms thrown around his neck and Athos’ head resting on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

The embrace is warm and comfortable and _perfect,_ and Athos thinks he could sit like this for hours, just watching the world go by, because he finally has a chance to do things right. Something curls inside his chest, like seeds taking root, and Athos isn’t quite ready to admit what it is, but he knows what it could be. 

_I think I might need you,_ he doesn’t say, because he’s not ready to hear those words, _I think I might love you._

_It fits,_ Athos thinks, and his smile doesn’t feel so secret anymore. _It fits._

**Author's Note:**

> calla lilies: purity, passion, admiration.  
> gladioli: honor, remembrance, integrity, faithfulness.  
> forget-me-nots: true love, respect, truthfullness.  
> marigolds: energy, optimism, good luck, the sun.  
> sunflowers: loyalty, longevity, hope, faithfulness.  
> bluebells: gratitude, humbleness, purity, constancy.
> 
> Heya! It's 3am on Valentines day, I finished this two minutes ago, there's been no editing whatsoever, and now I'm gonna throw this at you. This is most definitely going to be a series, though, I have no idea when I'll find the time to work on it, so please be patient with me!
> 
> Shoutout to the enabler chat on discord, who without them, this fic never would have been written, or gotten anywhere this long.
> 
> Come yell at me on discord and tumblr!  
> Discord: Cheshire#1847  
> Tumblr: [ a confused kitten ](https://aconfusedkitten.tumblr.com/)


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